


hypnosis

by windsilk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, but only a lil angst, mostly a bunch of saccharine disgusting fluff, who am I honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsilk/pseuds/windsilk
Summary: In Cabeswater, time is measured in heartbeats, in steps into the wilderness, in the crunch of fallen leaves and messages from long ago.In life, it's measured in two pieces: before Aurora and after Aurora.





	hypnosis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zinthos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinthos/gifts).



//

//

The halfway point between Henrietta and DC is nestled in Standardsville, Virginia, just on the crest of Shenandoah National Park. The trees melt into red and orange smears in Ronan’s peripherals, his eyes fixed on the dotted white lines darting beneath the car.

His phone chirps in the slate cup holder of the BMW, and he steadfastly ignores it. It’s Matthew, he knows. Wondering, wondering—

_Ronan, how far are you?_

_Ronan, Declan’s asking if we should order for you—the café has, can you believe it, strawberry syrup!!_

_STRAWBERRY SYRUP!_ _🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓_

He’s late because following the phantoms of Niall and Aurora Lynch to the Standardsville diner where Ronan was to collect Matthew for the fall break…was difficult to do.

The restaurant is where Niall proposed to his dream wife—over eggs and coffee one morning, with no ring and no plans and no Barns. A head full of dreams, some pocket change, and little else.

Aurora Lynch has been dead almost a year.

The gravel of the parking lot crunches under his tires, and he finds himself sliding into a parking spot next to Declan’s new Volvo. As if the old one hadn’t been ugly enough.

His phone chirps again, and he frowns, looking up. Matthew definitely sees him, smiling widely through the streaked diner window, blue eyes twinkling. So then…

He lifts the phone to check: Adam. He swipes down to expand the notification.  _You’ll be okay. See you at home._

He shudders an exhale, clearing his head of cobwebs, and shoves his phone in his back pocket. He grabs the backpack heavy with loss, pushes the door open of the car, pushes open the door of the diner, and shoves into the booth, nudging Matthew over for room.

“About damn time,” Declan scowls.

Matthew squeezes Ronan’s arm. “It’s good to see you.”

Ronan doesn’t waste time. “I found Mom’s will.”

Declan’s eyebrows draw together, and Matthew’s carefree grin flickers out.

“Didn’t know she had one, but there you go.”

He takes the folded paper out of his pocket, and in Aurora’s curlicue handwriting, it bequeaths to Declan her ring, one of the few non-dream items in her possession.  _For Ashley_ , it says. She gives to Matthew a locket with her and Niall on either side.  _For my sweetest boy._

And to Ronan, Niall’s wedding band.  _For Adam, I think._

Ronan fishes the items out of his backpack and slides them across the table.

Matthew’s lips tremble as reaches out to touch the loose oval locket, index finger sliding across the engraved print.  _My love._

The clink of silverware against plates, the stirring of coffee in cups, the murmur of menial conversation echo in grooves of Ronan’s ears. Matthew slides his pancakes drowned in strawberry syrup over to Ronan. Declan doesn’t touch the closed ring box.

Ronan hadn’t even found the stomach to locate his father’s ring from the jewelry box in Aurora’s closet.  

On the sidewalk outside the window flanking their booth, the wind eddies the leaves, whisking them into pops of yellow and brown—Aurora’s eyes.

 //

 //

Matthew shows Opal magic tricks on the porch in the waning afternoon. She drums her hooves impatiently against the cedar steps as he vanishes a coin again and again while moving it from one palm to the other—no sleeves in sight.

“I don’t understand! How!”

He winks, flashing a toothy grin, and wiggles his eyebrows.

Her mouth sets into a scowl and she snaps. “ _Kerah!”_ she shouts towards the open door of the house. “Matthew keeps taunting me!” She tugs the black beanie keeping her ears warm further down in frustration, tufts of her soft blonde hair puffing out, knotted in the early winter winds.

Chainsaw squawks and plucks the shiny coin from its hiding spot in Matthew’s original hand, flinging it at Opal. She fumbles to catch it and screeches victoriously, sounding remarkably like the raven that delivered it to her. “Hah! You cheater! You didn’t move the coin at all!”

Chainsaw natters in victorious assent, flapping around Matthew’s pouting head.

Adam watches this exchange through the window above the sink in the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of a knife hitting a cutting board cradling his ears. Ronan’s elbow brushes against Adam’s arm, and a slow heat spreads form that point outward.

“Opal was my mom’s favorite stone,” Ronan says suddenly. “She wore it all the time.”

Adam’s brow knits. “Was she a Libra?”

Ronan pauses for a second and then uses the blade to sweep the sweet potatoes off of the wooden cutting board and into a glass bowl. “I…don’t fucking know. She was born in October.”

“Yeah, a Libra. That’s the birthstone.”

Ronan squints at Adam. “Did Persephone teach you how to palm read as well before she up and vanished? Are you secretly an astrologer now?”

Adam huffs a sigh. “ _Ronan_.” His lips wrap around the name, like honey and molasses, and Ronan’s wrist pauses its movement. His eyes, sharp, flicker over to meet Adam’s in the reflection of the window. Condensation beads around Adam’s reflection’s shoulders.

“I had a dream last night,” Ronan says suddenly, looking away, setting the knife down all together. His fingers curl around the edge of the counter, skin pulling tight over his knuckles. “About Mom.”

Adam doesn’t say anything, but nudges Ronan out of the way, Adam’s hip pressing against the dark denim of Ronan’s jeans. He slides the cutting board closer to him and sets about slicing beets. The warmth spreads further.

“She had long hair like how she did when I was little. It curled around her elbows. She was holding a baby Opal, rocking her.” He lingers over this, licks his lips. “You know how time passes differently in Cabeswater?”

Adam hums.

“I get the feeling that…I think she spent a lot of time with Mom. Years, maybe. She’s…her mannerisms,” Ronan nods to how Opal tugs on the ends of her hair, over to how she stands with her hands on her hips. “They’re so much alike.”

Adam’s blue eyes trace over the creases in Ronan’s forehead which deepen with his every additional word: “It’s…” Ronan struggles, “…weird to me she wasn’t in the will.”

Adam lifts his free hand to rub at his chin, considering. “I think…she gave O a lot already in the time she had. She gave her a name, an identity, a place in the world. She’s not…Orphan Girl anymore. Not really. She’s got a family. Aurora did that.”

Ronan’s bare foot shifts, presses against Adam’s, and his skin thrums and stutters at the contact. Their eyes meet in the reflection again for a long moment, and then refocus at the  _zing_  of a coin as it bounces and rolls across the porch.

“Shoot!” Opal wails as the quarter falls into a crevice between two floor boards. “Magic is hard!”

 //

// 

Blue’s foot lifts off the clutch too early, and the car stalls again, whining and moaning in defeat. A beat passes and then she lets out an ungodly screech. “ _Why_  did you even give this to me? You couldn’t be bothered to dream up an automatic version?”

Ronan rolls his eyes in the passenger seat, playing driving instructor for the day. “Jesus Christ, Sargent. It’s just a car.”

Her head sags and drops to the steering wheel, the horn honking under the weight of her head. A flock of crows at the other end of the empty Aglionby parking lot scatter at the obtrusive noise. “Can you dream me up a jetpack instead?”

“No.” The word is muffled under the horn.

The red Camaro groans alongside her, frustrated, and finally she lifts her head off the horn.

“You don’t even know how to drive well. The whole reason this car exists is because you wrecked it,” she griped, pushing on the clutch again to move the gearshift. “I don’t know why you’re the one teaching me instead of Adam.”

Ronan gives her a sidelong glance, considering. The car trudges across the parking lot towards the gym where the rowing team practices. Richard Gansey III is there, somewhere—not Gansey the Raven King, but the other Gansey, a politician’s son.

“Parrish…is doing me a favor, looking after O.” The words are slow to come, fixed on the memory of Adam, lips parted in sleep, a quiet snore, his arms heavy and warm.

She snorts, mutters, and makes a turn towards the main building, speeding up. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Ronan’s gaze snaps to her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She rolls her eyes, about to retort, and the call jerks and stalls. “UGH. Fuck this.” She yanks on the parking break and crosses her freckled arms. “I hate this car.”

“Blue.”

The gravity in his voice makes her pause. “What?”

“What do you mean.”

She stared at him for a long moment, dark eyelashes framing confused eyes as she backtracks the conversation. “Oh.  _Oh_.” The irritation lifts from her face easily, replaced with a snarky grin, something which looks suspiciously Gansey. “You mean you think I don’t know about you two?”

Ronan scowls.

“You think you could hide that from me? That somehow, me, the smartest member of our group—”

“Interesting perspective, there,” he snips.

“—was somehow blind to your lovey dovey gazes and your blushes and your cutesy hand-holding and the sound of you two fuck—”

“ _Sargent.”_

 _“Lynch,”_ she parroted, a grin twitching at her lips. “Calla loves that you’re dating Coca-Cola. And…” she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, considering. “Adam is happy, and you both have Opal, and…you’re happier, too. At peace.” She taps her temple. “I can tell. I’m a psychic.”

He scoffs. “Get back to driving.”

She inspects him for a long moment, the white tank, the black leather jacket, his dour posture. He’s looking out the passenger window.

She turns the car off.

He turns to her.

She turns the keys between her fingers, thinking slow. “It’s a good thing, Lynch. It’s a good thing to be happy. That’s all anyone wants for you. You’ve…seen hard things. Like, really hard things. But there’s no use in holding on to them. They’re in the past. Don’t begrudge yourself a future.”

 //

 //

Adam traces the lines in Ronan’s hand in the gray morning light. Rain croons against the window behind the headboard, and the tree branches outside whisper amongst themselves.

“I learned how to palm read.” Adam’s voice is sandpaper.

Ronan’s eyes shift from their joined hands, the crests of Adam’s nails, to his face, cheeks lined with pillow creases. Ronan’s lips curl with laughter. “Did you really, Parrish.”

Adam hums an affirmative, eyes crinkling. “Your palm is interesting.” He lifts Ronan’s arm off the wrinkled sheets, positioning his hand closer. “This one,” he traces down the center, continuing even after the line ended down his wrist and forearm, raising goosebumps, “is your fate line. It’s pretty faint.”

“Mmm, I’m going to die? Typical psychic bullshit.”

Adam guffaws. “Well. We’re all going to die. But that’s not what this line tells. It’s more about…direction. You’re not bound in the same way I am.”

He unfurls his own fingers, pointing to the deep line cutting through his palm. “I’m set in my ways. I have things I measure myself against. I…” he struggles, “will always be defined by money and success and…”

The words clog, and he drops the thought, defeated. He shifts his attention back to Ronan’s hand. “You’re…freer. To decide for yourself.”

Ronan licks his lips, thoughtful. They’re quiet for a moment.

Ronan shifts onto his side, fulling facing Adam, and uses the hand not trapped between them to tug Adam’s jaw, rough with stubble, towards him: a kiss.

Adam’s morning breath puffs between them in surprise, and Ronan’s lips are hopelessly dry. They curl together, still, knees knocking, and Adam’s hand slips up under Ronan’s shirt, pulling him closer.

His fingers trace over the ridge of Ronan’s spine, over the black ink, around the sharp edge of his hip.

Ronan pulls back, a breath between them. His chest rises and falls.

He thinks about the will, the mahogany lacquered box that he’d cracked open just the day before, courage in his throat, about the weight of the ring resting against the deep green of the velvet inside. The metal was cool in the cushion of his hand. He’d measured it against his own fingers, the memory of blue petals and blood and his father’s booming laughter on his mind.

He refocuses. Adam is there waiting, watching.

Waiting.

Ronan speaks: “I decided a long time ago.”

//

//

**Author's Note:**

> written in jan 2018, for les' december 2017 birthday


End file.
